


Vicious Cycle

by mousaerato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Black Romance, F/M, I guess this is sadstuck?, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Confusion, Red Romance, Religious Conflict, Sadstuck, Sexual Fantasy, Troll Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato





	Vicious Cycle

                You wonder what she would taste like.

                It’s a brief, fleeting thought; the image of your mouth pressed tentatively against her thick, sable lips passes through your mind in the blink of an eye. As your gaze resettles on the girl before you, you shake your head and hope that she, as a Hero of Mind, cannot discern you. She lowers her candy-red glasses and gives you a look, half concerned and half annoyed, and asks if you’re even paying attention.

                You were. Of course you were.

                You manage a quick reply in the affirmative, voice pressured and strained, before returning to the softer, calmer voice you prefer when speaking to your teammates, telling her that you need a moment alone to contemplate and pray, if that would be acceptable to her. She rolls those same perspicacious, almond-shaped eyes, and pouts, pre-emptively chiding you for your piety. You should have been more careful in your speaking. Mituna’s about to arrive, she says, so it may be a blessing in disguise that you need to leave.

                Yes, a blessing for the pious.

                Your personal choice of celibacy is counter-intuitive to your entire society, often interpreted by your friends as the ultimate sign of brainwashing or social ineptitude. You, however, understand it as a discipline necessary for a good leader; romantic entanglements make it easy to be partial to certain people, perhaps even prejudicial to others. Your vow frees you from undue stress and complications, gives you more time to scrutinize the problems and injustices around you, and most of all, forces you to see your friends as the beings they are: a mix of good and bad, with hopes, thoughts, and aspirations all their own, and as living creatures, not conciliatory objects or concupiscent conquests.

                You head back to your place of respite, a room of silence and solitude, and like a bell the thoughts return with an unfortunately pleasant _clang_ , echoing against the walls and reverberating through your heart and consciousness.  You hoped that this nearly sacrosanct seclusion would cause the thoughts to dissipate; instead, they ring truer, more vivid.

                She brings her scarlet-gloved hands to the back of your head, fingers gingerly stroking your hair as she presses herself against you to return your cautious kiss with more interest, more passion. Your hands, uncertain at first, skim trace down her sides, settling at her hips with an enthused grip. You lick against those soft, angelic lips, and she parts them to you, granting you entrance. You groan; her tongue and her sighs are delicious, intoxicating, addicting. Before you know it, she’s on the floor, glasses discarded as she stares at you, encouraging you to strip your likewise-colored garments away. Despite her teal blood, red really is her color; you can’t wait to see how she would look with your…

                No. She is not yours. She is not a possession to be had or used.

                You open your eyes and find your belt and pants undone in a fit. You grab your offending hand in the other as if to suppress it, both hands sweaty and shaking the entire time. You remain alone, refusing conversation, company, or food, for the rest of the day. It’s a punishment you deserve, suitable for hating your imperfections, your sins, your failures.

                You are the most duplicitous, weak, pathetic leader you have ever known.

                No one says a word to you about your disappearance the next day when you meet with your friends. They look to you expectantly, anticipating a speech or sermon; it’s not that they are necessarily _interested,_ but they know that it is routine for you. You clear your throat, hoping to summon some kind of rousing monologue, but before you can begin, you feel hands pressed against your shoulders. In your peripheral vision, you can make out a piece of candy-red leather, matching the hue of your own knitted top. You could tell from the subtle pressure in the fingertips and the cheerful, enthusiastic pitch of the voice behind you who it was without looking, however. You always can in these cases.

                You jump out of your skin and raise your voice to her, brushing her hands off of you to walk away in a huff, muttering phrases you shouldn’t have said, shouldn’t have thought, shouldn’t have allowed. No, there will be no speech today – you have said enough.

                She does not cry, show sadness, or even anger, just confusion and perhaps a little fear at your sudden shift. Mituna looks offended on his matesprit’s behalf; the others: Meulin, Damara, Porrim, Aranea, even Meenah , are simply shocked. She should know better than to touch you; she’s flushed for someone else. How dare she unnerve you, send you subtle hints of romantic interest – it is complete disrespect and flagrant transgression of the quadrants.

                As you walk, you ruminate on how much influence she has over you, cold and subtle though it may be. Sometimes, you think you hate her for it. You want to scream at her, tell her how you know every one of her tells, every detail of her subconscious flirtations, from the way she curls her voice when she speaks to you, the way she finds excuses to touch you, to pull you out of your comfort zone with her “radical” decisions. A thought comes, unbidden yet again: maybe, just maybe, she would fight back.

                She would expose you, tell you all the things you can hide from everyone else, clear to her because of her role. She would roll her eyes and taunt you, call you out on your hypocrisy. She would punish you, instead of disregarding you, as would be fit: a harsh slap to your face, followed by grabbing you by the neck, eyes filled with predatory intent. She would kiss you, teeth biting down on your lips hard enough to draw blood from your mutation-filled veins, and her claws would tear away at your clothes. You would pull her obsidian, shining hair hard enough to leave visible bits missing, and push her to the ground, pinning her in place under your weight. She would bring her legs around your waist in an act of aggression, and you would give it right back to the manipulative woman below you, letting your fangs drag at her neck before you…

                Aranea finds you by yourself and asks what you’re thinking so much about, if you need a person to talk to, some friendly advice, or maybe an auspistice. Meenah is with her, of course; she smirks and thinks you’re waxing black for the first time in your life. You brush at your shirt to compose yourself before telling them both, voice in that same soothing register you reserve for your followers, that you simply haven’t slept or eaten in a while. Aranea approaches you gently, almost maternally, and informs you that your behavior has scared the group. She suggests that maybe Porrim would be willing to make something for you if you were sick.

                As if you didn’t know your actions were out of character for you.

                You politely decline, asking her simply to tell the others you’re under the weather, and return to your sanctum, your cell, your prison, for prayer and contemplation. Of course, you will punish yourself, too: another day without any nourishment, a naked rest on the floor instead of your soft and soothing recuperacoon, perhaps a lesson in self-flagellation. You deserve sincere retribution, not perverse pleasure, for the ways you’ve allowed your body and mind to betray you, your mission, your purpose.

                Your vow is meant to help you tend to everyone with fair, just, and equal care. It is not easy, but it is the best way to do so.

                Sleep finally comes two days into your self-imposed castigation and quarantine. The things you do to her in your dreams leave you confused and guilty. You notice a thin film of red fluid staining the inside of your thigh, and you pound a fist into it, again and again, hard enough to leave purple, brown, and tiny pink bruises. You pray that you find a way to stop this.

                You don’t hate her – you hate yourself. You can be better than this; you _are_ better than this.

                Porrim eventually visits you on the third day of your exile. She notices that your skin looks waxy and pale – too pale for someone who cannot become a rainbow drinker. You drink something at her insistence, and she informs you that you cannot stay by yourself today – it’s a special anniversary. She escorts you for the duration of the trip to where the others are waiting, and she chastises you for leaving her and your friends wondering about your well-being. They care about you, and you care about them.

                It is not good for man to be alone.

                When you arrive at your destination, you see that Meenah has prepared a cake in celebration. It’s been a full Beforan solar sweep since the twelve of you entered the game that triggered the end of your world, and for good or for worse, it brought all of you together. You watch as Peixes lauds her own baking abilities, and to your surprise, no one is complaining – not Nitram, Makara, Ampora, even Megido. It feels good to know that you’ve all managed to make it this far in such a deadly game without anyone dying – at least not anyone dying with no means of revival, that is. Aranea offers you a slice of cake and tells you, voice barely above a whisper, that everyone really missed you.

                You take a look at the 11 friends, followers, companions you have, and count yourself fortunate beyond compare. You want to be the person they can depend on, the person to unite them and guide them as  a thank you for being in your life, for listening to you, for believing in you. It strikes you a little as pale sentiment, but you know that your celibacy precludes any romantic intent, instead letting your heart’s capacities overflow to your platonic relationships. You look at each of them, full of joy and determination, their thoughts and needs just as real as your own, and you are glad that you can see that clearly, partially because of your own station in life.

                Your eyes settle ultimately on Latula, who is the last to get a piece of Meenah’s home-cooked handiwork. You watch her take a bite, getting frosting all over her black lips. 

                You wonder what she would taste like.


End file.
